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Elsewhere ..... A place close to the sky
Finally the last sounds of the celebration have faded into muted notes within breeze. He climbed to this place some hours ago, after his absence would be noted by none save his daughter. Already the Scattering has gone before him and he must follow so that this terrible labor at last might be finished. He should hate the thought of returning once more to that hellish place of shadow but there is that within him which relishes the call of the Scattering. His burned fingers tighten their grip upon the newly made handle of the Stormreaver – the wood is from the land of the outsiders. ~ Fitting ~ he thinks ~ and necessary for what is to come in the wake of these next days.
He places the axe on the ground beside him and grows still once more his ears straining to hear a few faint tones that linger in the air of this place and he smiles a smile filled with both the joy of greeting and the sadness of loss. Soon even these traces of her laughter will be borne away upon the free and living air and the sound of the laughter of she who had been like half of his heart shall be lost to him again. Her spirit has been freed from the grasp of the Devourer – he shudders at the memory of ......
...... but it is best not to dwell on horror, even upon horror that has been defeated, on a day that calls for rejoicing. Yes, she has been freed and this is cause to rejoice, but still she is lost to him. Would that such were not the case ...... But it had been a terrible fight against himself during the ritual not to simply allow the life to pour out from him, to mingle with hers once again. Without realizing it he has picked up the Stormreaver and his fingers move along the burnt wood of its handle. He grows still once more and listens to the fading laughter. Again he smiles, the smile of one acquainted with loss and who has learned to linger in fleeting joy. He turns his eyes upward searching the night skies until they find the Great Nomad, the star which always wanders yet never is lost. For seven years his eyes have sought its light and he laughs himself at the thought that so distant a thing has been his one companion through all the long years of his Exiling.
It is good that he makes such a decision as this here where he is alone save for the company of the silent Nomad. Reaching into his pocket he withdraws a simple wooden ring, that same ring his daughter was careful to recover for him. He pauses and breathes deeply. To place the ring upon his finger now will be to bring an end to his body’s recovery from its wounds. ~ And yet ~ he thinks ~ what better state to fix within myself than this moment with her laughter still within my ears? ~ His eyes narrow, hardening his choice against the objections of the pain in his limbs and with a single decisive movement his burned fingers claim the ring.
The wind bursts into movement as he does so for the bitter touch of the Scattering knows not the savoring of joy. It calls and he must answer. He tightens his grip upon the handle of the axe and life moves out through his fingers to mingle his joy and his loss with the anger gusting about him. Below him the celebration has reached its end, but here upon this lonely spire of rock an unforgiving movement gathers its strength and a song of death is in the air. There is no warmth in his voice when he speaks, there is only the cutting chill of winter. “It is time,” he whispers, “I am coming for you.”
And the bitterness of the Scattering gathers these words that it might whisper them in the lightless corners of a dismal and cheerless land. And the silent stormwalker steps outward into the wind.
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